Azarus stepped through the second pillar of white light, his foot leaving the clouds and landing on grass. He stood beneath a large oak tree, perched on the edge of a cliff. Far beneath him, rolling hills, rivers, and lakes sprawled for miles, cut into clean lines by roads, farms, and a city in the distance. Immediately before him were two men arguing with a woman. Elves, his instincts insisted.
“Just give me one more chance!”
The two men backed the elvish woman against the edge of the cliff. She faced Azarus but did not see him, far more occupied with her immediate concerns. Her eyes were bright blue, damp, and overly bright. She wore fine cotton skirts and a silk blouse, with an empty holster held to her hip by a fashionable black belt. One man, wearing a pinstriped suit, aimed a wand at her face. The leather case she clutched to her chest rattled with the sound of glass as she flinched to the side.
“You used your last chance a month ago, brat. Your choice was to serve the Alchemist Guild or die. Now die.”
The pinstriped elf’s demeanor was stiff, his tone lacking the heat his words carried. The tip of his wand glowed a bright cherry red. He held it level to the woman’s chest. His compatriot, hemming in the woman from the other side, clutched a vial of ominous blue. He weighed it in his hand with subtle movements, preparing to throw it.
As the woman tried to bargain for her life, robbed of her autonomy by external threats, Azarus appreciated the artistry of the scene. His domain thrummed at the sight. The scene could be a painting, fraught with desperation, cold resolve, and a certain symmetry. Dwelling on the thought, Azarus pondered if his domain had an element of artistry to it. Maybe he should trade his sword for a brush?
The woman’s sudden scream broke Azarus from his musings. He saw her scramble to dodge the thrown bottle, her foot catching on a root. She stumbled away from the cloud of grasping blue smoke as it ripped at the hem of her skirt. The man with the wand flicked his wrist. With a cry, the woman dove aside, ducking a line of fire the width of Azarus’s pinky. Her precious bundle flew over the edge of the cliff with the sound of breaking glass.
As she pushed herself off the ground to run, her foot slipped on the edge of the cliff. She fell hard, releasing a sharp grunt as her chest hit the edge of the cliff. Loose dirt fell, vanishing in the wind. Her lower body dangled over open air. With the wind knocked out of her, she struggled for oxygen, her breath coming in harsh gasps. Regardless, she kicked and scrambled, her legs flailing to find purchase. With a stroke of luck, she did. For a moment, she stood on an errant root jutting from the side of the cliff.
In the blink of an eye, three things happened almost simultaneously. A burning line of fire passed from the wand through her ear, taking the tip with it. The second man threw another vial, aimed to come crashing down on her torso. Then the thin root beneath her collapsed, allowing gravity to claw her down.
As she fell, the world froze. If the sudden weightlessness surprised her, the woman shook it off remarkably fast as she tried to scramble back up to safety, her fingertips clawing at the grass. Alas, frozen in time, she could do little more than squirm. When her hand brushed against a worn leather boot, she looked up.
Azarus stared down at her, his ringed emerald eyes boring into hers, bright blue and tear-stained. Her struggles stilled. At eight feet tall, Azarus had considered himself normal sized, perhaps even petite. He thought his experience with the minotaur had confirmed this outlook. Now he reconsidered. Even if Azarus’s potential Champion was standing, he would loom over her. Azarus frowned as he watched the alchemist’s eyes dart back and forth, seeking to escape him. He willed himself shorter, more approachable. Nothing happened. His frustration mounting, Azarus tried again. He was a god. He could take any form he pleased.
Reality itself seemed to resist him. The feeling of being trapped crept down his spine, sending tingles of nervous energy through his limbs. Heedless of his inner turmoil, a voice at his feet begged for his attention.
“Please, help me, please. I will do anything! I can’t die like this,” the elf said, tears pouring down her face, causing black streaks to stain her cheeks as her mascara ran.
Azarus immersed himself in the present, casting his other thoughts aside. He would need to be patient if he was going to free himself. Right now, this brave, adaptable individual deserved his attention. She impressed him with how quick she was to analyze the situation and switch tactics.
“What would you change?” Azarus said, repeating the question he used to sound out the minotaur. His domain resonated in his chest as he did so. He welcomed the feeling, sinking into it as he waited for her answer.
To the alchemist’s credit, she stopped her begging and gave the question serious consideration. Brow furrowed in determination, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, she answered his question loud and clear.
“I would become powerful. They reneged on our bargain and forced me through dire straits because I did not have the power to enforce my side.”
Azarus tapped his chin in thought. Briefly, he wondered if he missed the feel of his goatee. That aside, he thought the power to protect your own interests was a worthy goal. One he would happily aid in other circumstances. However, the answer felt shallow for someone destined to be his champion in a game for his freedom.
“And then?” Azarus prompted when the woman fell silent.
“And then?” the woman echoed, her voice puzzled. Her confusion did not last long. “And then I could achieve my dreams! I was so close. My potions were going to take the world by storm and I-”
Azarus shut his eyes, blocking her out. So that was it. She sought to change the events, but not herself. Azarus felt a heaviness in his chest that settled into a hard emotion in his gut. With a soft shake of his head, he offered a wish to the universe. He wished this woman could grasp a better fate. Hunted and cornered for pursuing her passion was no way to die.
Something in Azarus’s tenuous connection to his domain rattled, a thoroughly unpleasant feeling, but Azarus did not renege. For the sake of his own fate, he could not choose her. Still, he refused to do nothing. It was not in his nature. So, a wish.
The rattling intensified. A slow, inescapable ache lodged itself deep in Azarus’s core. He opened his eyes, meeting the woman’s hopeful expression.
“You are not my champion.” Azarus stayed and watched long enough to see her hope turn to despair. His heart cracked, but his will stayed strong. “I cannot help you.”
His fledgeling domain lurched inside of him, almost causing him to stumble as he turned away. Without looking back, he walked out of the scene. He did not see her fall, but he did not cower beneath his ignorance for the sake of his own comfort. As he reentered the hall of gods, Azarus decided he would create a painting in her honor. Such a yearning desire for life should not fade into the blackness unlamented.
Walking to the Mirror of Aeons, Azarus willed his form to change. He blinked, and it was done, confirming a half-formed suspicion. His new form was roughly two feet shorter and boasted a light beard, more stubble than anything. Azarus ran his fingers across the facial hair. He decided he liked the way it felt.
Turning to the last pillar, Azarus let out a sigh. Turning away from the last contender had been difficult. His heart ached for her. Still, he did not slow his stride as he approached the last choice, his back to the mirror.
He walked through the light, stepping into a dark room. The floor was composed of brittle plastic tiles. The walls were a drab, off-white that flaked and peeled in the corners. Sounds of battle echoed from beyond the flimsy wooden door. It sounded like curses punctuated by piercing peals of thunder, harmonizing with roars that shook the building.
Fearless, Azarus opened the door and walked through. The hollowed out ruins of a building greeted him. He counted four stories, each littered with bodies, or so he assumed by the unattached parts spread about. Taking stock of the desks and scattered paper in the ruins of each room, he deduced this was once a place of learning.
In the center of the ruin, a great monster laid waste to the remaining rubble, chasing a scurrying form around. The figure would dive behind cover after cover, popping out to shoot at the beast with charged rounds from his rifle whenever he had the chance. He was a human, wearing a long black coat with a multitude of pockets and pouches. The man drew out one object after another, throwing one at the monster, breaking another in half and eating it, applying another to a bullet, and so forth. Azarus did not pay the specifics much mind. It was clear this man was a monster hunter, searching for the right way to kill his prey.
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Despite his valiant efforts, the human soon found himself out of strategies and places to run. Staring death in the eyes, the man whispered a small prayer, too soft to be heard by any but him. It echoed in Azarus’s ears like a thunderstorm in a canyon. The world ground to a halt. Time stood still, waiting for the dice to fall.
“Please, give me a second chance.”
Azarus’s domain, dormant like a bed of cinders, resonated with the hunter’s plea, to the point he could feel it trying to ignite. It made Azarus wonder if he was a god of Luck. He dismissed the thought after a moment’s consideration. That did not feel quite right. It did not represent him.
Pushing his quest of self-discovery to the side, Azarus answered the hunter’s call. He spoke into the man’s ear like he was standing right next to him.
“What would you change?”
The hunter closed his eyes for a moment, his posture slumping. Opening them again, he cast about, taking in the surrounding scene. His eyes seemed to linger on the dismembered bodies.
“I forced this,” he said, turning his eyes away from the carnage and hanging his head. “The monster was content to hide and feast occasionally, but I hunted it down to a community college. Now, everyone is dead. If I could change-”
The human paused, sinking into himself for a moment. When he looked up again, taking in the fangs about to close on him, he looked world-worn. His thick beard did little to hide the scars life had left on his face. Spittles of the monster’s saliva hung frozen in time around him.
“I would have never come here,” he said in a voice a whisper could drown out. “I would quit hunting monsters and find another path. Some other way.”
A great sense of disappointment fell across Azarus. This was not his champion. The hunter pulled at Azarus’s sensibilities, his demeanor appealing to the image he had chosen for himself; a wanderer, changing the fates of others wherever he went. However, Azarus could not see the broken man taking him to the top of the tower. In his most dire moment, the hunter had lost his will to fight.
“You are not my champion.”
Feeling an unusual tightness in his chest and tension in his jaw, Azarus stepped out of the scene. In the great hall, the three pillars still burned. Azarus shook his head and turned away from them, facing the mirror. With a huff, he crossed his legs and sank to the ground. After some thought, he decided a direct approach was best in this situation. He spoke to the air in front of him where a screen would appear, his tone carrying an undeniable certainty.
“My champion is not here.”
Of the three, none were what he needed. His champion must represent him.
As expected, a screen popped into life, invading Azarus’s space.
[Choose a Champion]
Azarus shook his head at the screen. He kept his tone as polite as he could, seeing no point in aggravating the entity more than he already planned to.
“I am prepared to be stubborn about this.”
The screen shook at him several times, then blinked away. Azarus waited. He would outlast the being that managed the notifications until it bent to his decree. Taking a deep breath, tasting the crisp, almost electric air, Azarus prepared to resist.
Thankfully, his previous showings must have convinced the screens he was not bluffing. With a breath of displaced air, like a disdainful sigh, a fourth pillar appeared, growing from the clouds instead of descending from the stars.
It was a sickly thing compared to the others. The white was so faded it would be more fair to call it gray. It did not burn with light so much as smolder. Thus, Azarus experienced his first instance of what his inherited knowledge referred to as ‘malicious compliance’. He did not care for it.
Not one to quibble over what had already happened, Azarus entered the gray light. He stepped onto a worn dirt path, crowded with aggressive undergrowth, leading to a small village nestled in the thick forest of a narrow valley. Long shadows crept along the forest floor, cast by the setting sun. The village had no walls and no guards, a flaw made apparent by the stream of armed humans charging at the small wooden and oiled-leather homes. They passed around Azarus as if he did not exist.
Screams of surprise and terror echoed off the valley walls, followed by clashes of metal and cries of pain. Within seconds, columns of black smoke rose above the trees. The orange glow of fire illuminated the night as the sun fell behind the mountains, casting the valley into darkness.
Azarus spared a moment to sympathize with the mountain walls of the valley. They had watched over this village since its founding. To watch the lives of those in your care snuffed out, immobile and unable to help, would be difficult, even for stone. The village would be ash before the light of dawn could reach it.
Sorrow in his heart, Azarus approached a figure crawling down the path toward the village. Her legs trailed limply behind her, leaving a streak of blood that turned dirt to mud, like a brush might leave paint. She pulled herself forward with trembling arms, her bare stomach scraping across the sticks and stones in her path. Her long, dark hair, matted with blood, leaves, and dirt, looked like someone had ripped a chunk out.
Despite her green skin, her pointed ears and slender figure suggested a short elf. Azarus furrowed his brow. That did not seem correct. His instincts told him elves were not known for their short stature or green skin.
The moment froze as he grew near to the girl, the orange flames devouring the village turning a verdant green in the frozen world. The dark shadows cast by the mountains became inky blots, squirming with hunger. Azarus studied the scene even as the girl attempted to continue crawling. She murmured incoherent words beneath her breath as she did, her hand stretching out as if to grab something far away. Azarus followed her gaze.
There, already in the village, was a man with a wicked grin, the shadows kissing at his feet. He rammed his sword through the gut of a green-skinned man, while his hand held a woman by the hair as she screamed. Azarus’s eyes drifted to a bracelet of woven white flowers around the man’s wrist, stained with drops of blood. Mouth twisting downward, Azarus looked down at his potential champion, noting a matching bracelet stained red with blood.
A weariness settled in Azarus’ bones. Betrayal, deep and true. The sort of failure that haunted a lifetime. Failure, he labeled it, for failure it was. This poor girl had not seen the evil behind the mask and would now suffer for it as long as she lived.
Azarus knelt down, helping the girl up into a sitting position. He knelt beside her, his emerald eyes boring into her ruby ones. Her eyes, like bright, flawed gems, were crystal clear despite the pain etched on her face. She smiled at him, flashing far too many teeth, each sharp and serrated. The last puzzle piece clicked in Azarus’s mind. She was a goblin.
A look of relief crossing her tear-stained face. Words fell from her lips, tripping over themselves as she babbled.
“You answered. Like the old hob said, I offered everything and a noble spirit came to save me.”
Azarus neither confirmed nor denied her words. He squashed the impulse to correct her. He was a god. Spirits, no matter how noble, were lesser beings. Still, Azarus took pity on the girl. He touched the pommel of his sword, feeling the dice tumbling. They seemed to slow, but he could not be sure.
Azarus asked his question, for what he hoped would be the last time.
“What would you change?”
The goblin girl stared at him with a blank face. After a beat, she barked a laugh.
“Everything!” she said, as if insulted by the question. “What is there to keep? A human and the myth of love fooled me. Now, he burns my village and enslaves my people. If I was smarter, stronger…”
She trailed off, falling silent. Looking at Azarus as he waited for an answer, silent and stoic, something inside her seemed to break. She lowered her head, one shaking hand coming up to wipe her eyes, taking away the tears and leaving streaks of blood like war paint in their place. Something passed behind her expression and she averted her eyes from Azarus’s face.
“I would change myself,” she said, not daring to make eye contact.
Azarus felt his domain thrum, a swell of rightness settling inside him. He had abandoned three potential champions to their fate because they did not represent him. A bittersweet feeling pulled at him. He wished he could have done more. Someday, he would. Once he claimed his rightful power, he would leave no one behind again. The first step was before him.
“I will give you that chance,” Azarus said, standing up and holding out his hand. The goblin girl’s head snapped up, her ruby eyes locking onto him before dashing away. She moved to grasp his hand before a flash of wariness crossed her expression. Azarus smiled at her hesitation. An ounce of wisdom would go far. “Become my Champion. It will be difficult. You may be changed in ways you regret. You may exceed my expectations. It is a chance. Nothing more, nothing less. What you make of it is up to you.”
Her look of doubt intensified. She chewed her lip and glanced over the frozen world, taking in the sight of her former lover pillaging her home. Her sharp teeth broke skin, causing a trickle of blood to run down her chin. She shook her head as if to dislodge her thoughts through her ears. Azarus let her struggle with her thoughts, waiting with the patience of the mountains surrounding them. Before long, the pitiful goblin girl grabbed Azarus’s proffered hand.
“Make me strong,” she said, her ruby eyes heavy with emotion. Azarus did not respond. He had already said what he had to say. With a curt nod, he stepped out of the scene, pulling her with him.
Arriving back in the hall of gods, Azarus went to speak to his newly anointed champion. However, when he turned, he saw she had become a statue of smoldering gray flame. Around him, the burning white pillars collapsed into a wave of fire that washed over the hall and dispersed into nothingness. Azarus barely felt the heat. The wave of fire was more soothing than anything, washing away some of the tension accumulating in his shoulders. He wondered why that was, but did not dwell on it.
Turning his attention to the screen that popped up, he gave it a small nod.
“You did well,” he said, acknowledging the screen’s efforts to soothe any lingering resentment.
Azarus was resistant to the idea of humbling himself before his captor. However, a good merchant knew there was an element of give and take in every transaction, the same way a warrior knew there was a time to feign weakness to prepare a lethal blow.
The screen blinked at him, its message unchanged.
Quest: Choose a Champion - Complete
Your Champion will be your hands and feet in the mortal worlds. Hope you chose wisely.
Reward: [Begin Tower Climb], Divine Points
Suppressing a sigh, Azarus physically clicked the flashing [Begin Tower Climb], to show his resolve and to ease his enmity with the screens. The screens rewarded him with multiple new notifications for his good deed. He could not suppress the second sigh.